


Engine grease

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Furiosa is the most eaten out character in fandom history, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Movie(s), Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6435787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'd seen lots of fics where Max and Furiosa wash each other and have sex. So I thought I’d write one where they got really dirty (and have sex).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Engine grease

Engines aren’t a tidy job, but Furiosa is usually a neat worker. Right now, she’s covered in grease. A dark, sticky splash spreads down her right side, drenching her shoulder and flesh hand, splattered on her torso and the side of her face. She’s lucky it missed her prosthetic arm, sparing her a long and fiddly cleaning job, but the grease has soaked right into the belts that support it.

They’ve been training pups in the engine shop, and there was an accident with a jar of the stuff. The pups were doing well, until one ambitious kid staggered under the weight of a crankshaft part, colliding with a war boy carrying the jar, who walked right into Furiosa. Nobody was hurt, and neither the jar nor the part were broken, but Furiosa got a shoulderful. “More grease than an imperator,” one girl says, looking at the vertical smudge down Furiosa’s face, then visibly wishing she could take the words back. “Yeah,” Furiosa agrees, surprised to find she doesn’t mind.

Suitable words spoken about safety and accidents, she heads back to her room to get cleaned up. She tries not to touch anything on the way. Workers coming down from the gardens are grubby enough, when she passes them on the stairs, but she’s a mess. Max, she knows, is doing a lookout shift. He’s fresh back from a trip across the wastes, and they’d both realised that the noise and chatter of a training day would be too much, too soon. 

She’s surprised to find the door barred, and kicks at it. It’s opened by a very clean Max, shift over early. He’s rested and washed and obviously already more inside his own head. His hair is damp from washing the dust off, eyes bright and freshly-shaved skin ruddy. More than that, he’s wearing the clean shirt.

The clean shirt is something Furiosa teases him about. She’d found it in a bundle of clothes, forgotten in the boot of an abandoned car. It’s the kind he likes, sturdy jersey cotton, and almost unworn. It’s surprisingly clean for wasteland salvage, nearly as pale as wife fabric. She knows he was pleased – he’d gone gruff when she gave it to him – and he’s ridiculously careful of it. She’s tried packing it in his bag when he went out for a scouting mission. He came back dirty and tattered, with the clean shirt still neatly folded in his pack. 

She strongly suspects he’s done the same thing this time, and is only wearing it now, for a few hours before bed, as a way of dodging criticism. She wouldn’t mind seeing him in it more often: it looks good, the way it sits on his broad shoulders and drapes on his torso, the way the neckline frames his throat. Clean as he is, he comes over to help her with her arm. 

“Careful,” she says. “I’m filthy.” 

“Mmmm, you are.” His voice is low and growly, with a resonance she can feel in her belly. He’s looking her up and down, eyes darkening. A flush of heat washes over her as she returns his smile. Max reaches past her to bar the door. He’s close enough that she can smell his skin, even if he’s careful to avoid the muck. Her breathing speeds up when he drops to his knees. 

Max ignores the sticky buckles of the prosthetic, using his left hand to undo her trousers.

“’ve just washed,” he reminds her, and tugs her leathers and underwear down to her knees. She feels cool air on her skin, shivers when his hands land warm on her hips. 

“So?” she says, looking down at him, matching the challenge in his face. 

“So you shouldn’t get me dirty,” he says, his breath hot against her inner thigh. She swallows. He nudges her backwards; she shuffles until she’s against the cold metal of the door, trousers tangling around her calves. He keeps his eyes on hers as he strokes one hand down her thigh, the other sliding round to knead at the curve of her buttock. 

“What are you going to do about it?” she says, skin tingling under his hands.

“S’pose I should clean you up,” he says, his voice dropping to a rumble that goes right through her, and licks a stripe up the inside of her leg. Furiosa bites back a whimper. He grins up at her, and ducks his head to kiss above her knee. She gives a huff of frustration as he nibbles and licks at her inner thigh, ignoring her pussy. If her hands were clean, she’d pull him up where she wants him, and she knows he knows it. 

He’s still stroking her, hands kneading and smoothing as his mouth inches upwards. She moans at one touch, the warmth of his palm just there, and he does it again, murmuring in satisfaction at her catch of breath. At last, he reaches her crotch. She sighs when he nuzzles her pubic hair, presses a rather chaste kiss to the lips of her vulva: no tongue, even though she’s already wet enough to drip down her thighs. Then he starts back down her other leg. 

“Max, you _schlanger_ ,” she says, closer to wailing than she’d like to admit. He pauses, looks up at her. He’s still grinning, but his eyes are soft. He gives her thigh another open-mouthed kiss, and starts nibbling his way back up. 

Once he stops teasing, he really stops teasing. Parting her lips, he licks into her, hot, urgent, strokes from her cunt to her clit. She shudders, gasping. Max holds her hips steady and puts his wet, greedy mouth to work, licking and sucking at her clit until she’s trembling. When she comes, her human and metal hands scrabbling at the door behind her, he goes on licking, bringing two fingers up to circle her cunt. 

She’s panting, knees shaking. He breaks off, stroking her thigh with his left hand. When she steadies enough to look at him, he slides his fingers in, eyes holding hers. He leans back in to lap at her clit as she thrusts against his hand, growling when she twitches and comes around his fingers. Furiosa is leaning against the door, flushed and breathing hard, feeling floaty with pleasure. Max stands up, hands carefully back and out of the way. She wants to kiss him, but he’s somehow managed to stay clean, not a spot of grease on him. 

So she isn’t expecting it when he steps right into her space, pressing his body hard and eager against hers. She gulps as he pushes her back against the door, hip to hip, chest to chest. She can feel the heat of his skin through their clothes, through the sticky layer of grease down her right side. 

Max is still holding his arms out, the right one tucked behind him; it’s one thing to tantalise her, but he needs his hands clean. He leans in to kiss her, hungry and wet. She nips at his bottom lip, tasting herself in his mouth, and licks at his sticky chin. Still reluctant to use her hands, she grinds her hips forward against his. He reaches down, left-handed, to unfasten his pants, shoving them awkwardly down. She changes her stance, opening her legs for him, as far as her trousers will allow. He slicks his cock with his wet – but not greasy – right hand, lining up their hips. 

They both moan when he slides in. He carefully slips his right hand in to find her clit, soft light touches as he starts to thrust. Furiosa rocks into it, wrapping her dirty flesh hand around his waist, pulling him closer. He kisses her again, and tilts his head to rub his clean cheek against her spattered one.

Her clit is oversensitive and twitchy; she shivers when he circles his fingers, still light, and speeds up his hips. She moves her flesh hand up, pressing her palm and fingers against his back. She knows she’s marking him on purpose now, and puts both hands, flesh and metal, on his arse, urging him to thrust harder. She lets out a long, low wail as she comes again, panting and shuddering. Max buries his face in her neck, coming with a groan, his left hand clutching at her side. He’s lost track of where she’s clean and where she’s dirty. 

Furiosa’s legs are wobbling. She nudges at Max, and after a moment collapsed against the door, they tug up their trousers and make it to her workbench – stone, and mercifully washable. Max starts unbuckling Furiosa’s arm, unwrapping her belts. Laying it on the desk, he’s careful to keep the clean prosthetic away from the tangle of sticky, saturated leather. When he gets her bodice off, the skin underneath looks startlingly clean. He kisses her midriff, his cheek leaving a dark smear. 

There are smears everywhere. Looking over her shoulder, he hums with amusement at the black handprints on the door – one a perfect print, the others wildly smudged. Furiosa looks down at what will never again be the clean shirt. There’s a messy stain down his left side, and she knows she left more handprints on his back. In the middle, she can see the mirror image of her own body pressed into his, the curve of her right breast and the stripes of her belts standing out against the pale fabric. 

Max leans in to kiss her.

“Bath,” he murmurs against her lips. She pulls back, painting a line down his nose with one finger. 

“Yeah,” she agrees. They haul themselves up, sticky and dishevelled. “You’ll need another shirt,” she says. He shakes his head, smiling at her.

“I like this one.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
